


Black as Night

by overused_underrated



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, References to Depression, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overused_underrated/pseuds/overused_underrated
Summary: NaNoWriMo - Day 2CW: Body dysphoria, self hatred, self image issues, body modification/ mutilation (slight), internal voicesDemons got to choose their wings after the fall. Crawley wanted a constant reminder of his casting out. It's in years that follow that are the problem...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Black as Night

Crowley was a dark mass, hunched over in the corner. He rocked back and forth on his heels, knees pressed tightly into his chest.  _ No no no no no…  _ His mind was racked with guilt, fear, shame, disgust. His thoughts pounded inside his mind.  _ You’ll never be enough... You’ll always be tainted… Who could ever forgive you? _ Tears streamed down his face, eyes illuminating the skin that concealed them. “Please… stop,” he begged. Pleaded. The voices grew so loud he covered his ears with his hands. “STOP IT!!’’

_ Knock. Knock.  _ “Crowley..?”

~

Crawley, who would later rename himself Crowley, chose his wings: black. It was the first thing he saw after he fell. Darkness. Never before had he been without her light. It was a pain he never wanted himself to forget. 

After the fall, the demons took pride in the appearance of their wings, far more than any angel. It was their first true act of freedom. Of individuality. They were central piece of themselves that  _ they _ were in charge of. Their wings meant something. No longer were they simply charity from above; they were symbols of freedom- of choice. Free will- something gifted onto the humans but forbidden from Her first creations. 

Crawley took good care of his wings, at first. They were massive feats of beauty. Black and brilliant as the night sky he had filled with Her light. As time wore on, he began to loathe himself and the choices he made. He never meant to fall. He sought knowledge, companionship, love. How could that be so wrong? It was after the flood that Crawley became Crowley. A new name for a new time. One where what little faith was left in God had crumbled away, lost to the rising waters.

Crowley had faced many challenges alone over the years. The aftermath of the flood, Jesus’ crusade to his death, even the plague. He spent so much of his life caring and tending to those She neglected; the ones she cast out- just like him. It all became too much. As a way to cope, Crowley focused on his wings. He carefully brushed, preened, and combed every feather. There was never to be one out of place. As the world aged around him, he felt Her presence and care dwindle away.  _ You can’t abandon them...they need you. _

The years continued on, as did the brushings. Crowley started caring for them every week, then biweekly. Soon it was every other day. He would unfurl his wings in the mirror and spend hours brushing and straightening.  _ Come on...you know better! _ He’d brush and brush and brush. When the 80’s came, and everything became too much, Crowley finally cracked. He was brushing his wings every single day. He hyper-fixated on them. Every calamus (the shaft) had to precisely be at a 270° angle, the rachis (the “vein”) had to be straight and parallel to the calamus, and there were to be no spaces or separations in the barb (the feather itself). 

The truth began to take form when Brian May, Queen's guitarist, found a perfect, black feather on the floor. “Where’d this come from?” he asked. He held it in his hands, confused. Crowley’s face went pale at the sight. His hands began to shake and he bolted from the room. “You, alright, mate?” The demon didn’t answer. He ran to the bathroom, whipped out his wings and saw the horror. Holes. Empty spaces. Brian didn’t find the first feather, he merely was the first one to point it out. Crowley collapsed on the floor, writhing in grief.  _ No! Why?!  _ His tears stained his jacket and the cold tile floor. No one looked for him. He remained there, shaking and paralyzed with agony, as more and more feathers slowly littered the space around him. 

Crowley spent more time on his wings, shaping and caring for the remaining feathers. His mind was too sick to realize everything he did only made it worse. It came to a point where he stopped looking in the mirror- whether his wings were out or not. He loathed his appearance. He hated himself. The sheer sight of himself made him want to vomit. As he brushed his wings, more feathers would fall, some coming out in handful clumps. It was too late. There was no stopping it now- like a virus taking over a host body. 

By the time Aziraphale found him on the bathroom floor, Crowley’s wings were bare- like a freshly plucked chicken. There was no point in brushing them anymore, they were skeletons of the man he once was. He sobbed uncontrollably as Aziraphale held him, fear resting in the angel’s heart. He didn’t know if Crowley had done this to himself, or if She was punishing him. All he knew was Crowley no longer had wings, and there was a very good chance he would never have them again. 


End file.
